


you can call me coach

by bustedsuspect



Series: Sterek AU's [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Highschool AU, Lacrosse, M/M, coaching fic, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 09:13:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1260958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bustedsuspect/pseuds/bustedsuspect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is the school's resident heartbreaker and Stiles is a Sophomore with the goofy smile, and Derek is going to do whatever it takes to make him his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can call me coach

The first day back at school after the summer holidays is always the worst. Derek partly hates it because it means falling back into a routine, but mostly he hates it because he’s just spent two months travelling around Europe with Cora and being back in Beacon Hills already has him tearing at his hair in frustration.

Still, at least this is the _last_ first day back at school he’ll ever have to suffer through again. He’s officially a Senior, and he can practically taste the freedom already. Ten more months of this shit hole and then he’ll be off, out of town to somewhere far far away.

Currently, he and Isaac and Erica are sat on the wall by the school entrance, waiting for the first bell to ring and for the term to officially start. Time seems to pass by excruciatingly slow, the button-up Cora had picked out for him already chafing his neck.

“This sucks balls,” Derek blurts out finally. “I want to be back on the white beaches of Sicily. Fuck school. Fuck _everything_.”

“Shut up,” Erica says mildly, lighting up a cigarette and taking a long drag before passing it over to Isaac. “We’ve got one year left. _One year_.”

“What if I can’t last that long?”

Isaac rolls his eyes, takes a puff on the cigarette, and hands it back. “Of course you will you, asshole. You’ve made it this far, haven’t you?”

Derek just shrugs, because it’s definitely true. He’s made it this far, and he’s made it pretty well thank you very much. The three of them sit comfortably at the top of the school’s food chain – everybody knows who he is for all the right reasons, and as a result he can’t remember the last time he went without a date at the weekend. He does okay truthfully, and if he’s honest he quite enjoys school. Still, that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to complain about it. “I guess,” he settles for, fixing his eyes on the drabble of students sauntering through the school gates up ahead instead.

“Isn’t it crazy thinking about it though?” Erica says, sweeping her blonde hair off her shoulders and teasing it into a bun. “That we are literally on the edge of the rest of our lives, that everything is about to start-”

“-shut up a second,” Derek says suddenly, leaning precariously forward on the wall and slapping a hand across her mouth to shut her up mid-flow. His green eyes squint tight together as they hone in on the boy that has just ambled through the gates. He’s completely dorky looking, practically tripping over his gangly limbs as he heads towards the building, and his dark hair sticks up all over the place - but there’s something else about him, something Derek can’t put into words, something that means he can’t tear his eyes away.

“…Derek?” Isaac says.

“Hmm…?” he answers absently, his eyes following the boy across the car park, before he straightens up. “Okay, who the hell is _that_?”

Both Isaac and Erica look up and over in the direction that Derek is shamelessly staring, mouth open, eyes blown wide. “Umm,” Isaac hums. “Begins with an S, I think. He plays junior Lacrosse. Seth, maybe?”

“Stiles,” Erica corrects. “That’s Stiles Stilinski.”

“He’s new, right?” Derek says firmly, taking in the boy’s long, lean torso, endless legs and goofy smile. “Or a transfer? I totally would’ve noticed him before now.”

“Nope,” Isaac shrugs. “I’ve seen him around tonnes. He was at Middle School with us, too.”

“No shit,” Derek murmurs. “There is absolutely no way in hell that I would forget a face like that. Jesus, the things I would do to that face…”

“Down boy,” Erica says mildly, rolling her eyes. “I’m pretty sure he’s a Sophomore. Let’s try and keep things legal, shall we? I’d like to graduate without any arrests, please.”

“Spoil sport,” Derek pouts, but his eyes carry on following the younger boy as he makes his way painstakingly slowly across the asphalt until he reaches a group of other boys who quickly swallow him up, surround him, orbit him - not that Derek blame them one little bit. “Shit, he even makes _plaid_ look good! You know how much I hate plaid. Maybe I should just go over and introduce myself. What have I got to lose?

“You do know it’s weird that you think out loud, don’t you?” Isaac says.

“It’s charming, actually,” Derek says. “Right. It’s decided, I’m going over. Wish me luck!”

“You’ll need it, Derek,” Erica snorts. “The boy is straight as anything.”

Derek falters, half way through pushing himself off of the wall. “Yeah?” he frowns. “How are you so sure?”

“Because he’s been banging Lydia since Christmas!”

“Wait,” he scowls. “Lydia _Martin_ Lydia?”

“Yes,” she says impatiently. “Bloody hell, Derek, _everyone_ knew that. Have you been living under a rock or what?”

“He, that adorable Adonis of a boy, is going out with Lydia fucking Martin?” Derek asks again. “From _our year_ Lydia? Prom Queen Lydia?!”

“The one and only,” she says drily.

“How did I not know this?” Derek snaps. “Why did no one think to let me know?”

“Because you didn’t know that he existed until five minutes ago?” Isaac offers, just as the registration bell rings out loudly over the car park. “Plenty of other fish in the sea, Derek.”

“But I want _Stiles_ ,” he pouts.

“Of course you do mate,” he sighs, and the three of them trudge into the entrance hall.

*

Derek has gone through the last five years of education completely oblivious to Stiles Stilinski’s existence, but now he sees him everywhere. He sees him in the canteen at break time, dithering in the corridors between lessons and surrounded by friends on the field at lunch, and every time he lays eyes on him Derek swears he gets better looking. Jesus.

He’s not Derek’s usual type, but there’s something about his stupid smile and the way he throws his head back so violently when he laughs and he looks constantly like he’s having the best day of his life that means Derek can’t look away. And that’s not fair, really, that he should be so unconsumingly and overwhelmingly beautiful, especially considering he hasn’t even properly grown into his body yet if his clumsy limbs and too-big feet are anything to go by. Derek finds out that he’ll be seventeen in October, and that he volunteers in the office before school, filing away paperwork for no pay because he’s an absolute saint. He finds out that he’s taking further maths a year early because he’s _that_ clever. He finds out that he is an avid plaid wearer and is best friends with a dude called Scott, who is apparently a pretty decent guy. But then Derek finds out that, like Isaac said, Stiles is on the Lacrosse team, and _that_ clicks, _that_ means something. Because Lacrosse is Derek’s _thing_.

*

It’s been two whole weeks since Derek first laid eyes on Stiles. He and Isaac are sat in the canteen eating pizza slices side by side and Erica is in the art room finishing her sketches. Derek is bored. Derek is sick of waiting. He wants Stiles Stilinski and he wants Stiles Stilinski _now_.

He nibbles the edge of his slice, swallows it down, and then chews on the inside of his cheek instead. “So the junior Lacrosse team, huh?” he says finally, trying to keep his voice casual.

“Yeah?” Isaac says. “What about it?”

“Does the senior team have anything to do with them? The players, I mean?”

Isaac just looks at him. “No, Derek. You know that. We didn’t have anything to do with them last year and we haven’t this year. Why would anything have changed? You’ve only been off the team for two months.”

Derek just shrugs. “Do you know how they’re doing?”

“They haven’t even had any games yet,” he shrugs back. “They’ve got their first one in like six weeks or something. But they don’t even have a full time coach. Finstock goes along when he’s got time in-between sessions with the senior team, but that’s about it.”

“Well that’s a bit shitty for them,” he frowns. “When _we_ were playing juniors we had two full time coaches.”

“That’s because we had the best team in the region,” Isaac reminds him. “And the best _player_ in the entire north of the country. We had _you_ , Derek. They’ve got no one.”

And yeah, okay, maybe that’s true. But still. “That doesn’t mean they should get ignored, though.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Isaac shrugs. “That’s their problem, not yours.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, an idea already forming in his head. “Yeah, I guess so.”

*

Derek goes to find Finstock the next day at lunch. “I heard the juniors don’t have a full time coach,” he says.

“What’s it to you, Hale?” Finstock says in his usual, mildly angry manner. 

“I could step in, if you want?” Derek offers as casually as he can. “It’s not like I’ve got much else to do now that I’m not playing. It’d be nice to keep up with the sport.”

Finstock looks at him like he’s crazy. Maybe he is. “You’re _volunteering_ to train a bunch of uncoordinated smart-alecky little shits? You actually want to do it? Without being forced?”

“Call it boredom,” Derek shrugs. “Well?”

“You’re serious?” he asks. “Because the job is absolutely yours if you are. You want the job? Take the job. Take it.”

Derek bites back his grin. “Okay.”

“You are my favourite student, you know that?” Finstock says, breaking into a dazzling smile. “I _knew_ there was a reason I wrote you that glowing resume. They train Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and their first game is six weeks on Saturday. You need anything, you just ask, okay?”

“Okay,” Derek says, and tries not to think about how much of his life he’s just signed away just to have a genuine excuse to talk to Stiles bloody sixteen-year-old Stilinski. Shit.

*

"You did _what_?" Erica hisses at him in the middle of their English class that afternoon. Derek thinks that Erica looks a little like a cobra when she's mad, all coiled up and ready to explode and start attacking people left right and centre. Namely him.

"I volunteered to coach the junior Lacrosse team," Derek shrugs. "No big deal."

" _Massive_ deal, Hale!" she argues. "They train three times a week and they play on Saturdays!"

"So?"

"So you're murdering your social life!" she cries. "And for what? A totally average reference for your university application? That you don't even _need_?"

"And an excuse to ogle that Stilinski kid," Isaac snorts from Derek’ other side. And yeah, Derek could totally kill him for bringing that up when he was so close to getting away with it. Forget cobras, he’d just do it with an axe or something.

"That's got nothing to do with it," Derek splutters. 

"Nothing?" he smirks.

"Nothing," Derek lies, and crosses his heart to prove it. "Jeez, you really think I would go that far? The boy's straight for god's sake."

"Like that hasn't stopped you before," Erica says flatly. "I hope to god he's not why you volunteered, Derek, or I will rip the shit out of you for all of eternity."

"He's not," Derek assures them both, and focuses his eyes back down on The Great Gatsby so that he doesn’t have to look at their stupid judging little looks anymore.

*

The first training session is the following Monday. Derek digs out his best pair of cleats and a tank top that shows off his arms nicely and spends the twenty minutes between the end of school and the start of practice styling his hair into its usual flawless quiff and making sure he looks good enough to catch a certain pair of eyes.

The team is already out on the pitch when he arrives, in all their misshapen mismatched glory. 

"Alright," he nods as he saunters over, pointedly not looking over in Stiles's direction. "I'm Derek Ha-"

"-we know who you are," some titchy ginger kid calls out from the back. 

And of course they do, because Derek' reputation precedes him wherever he goes. Shit, he hopes they don't think he's a total asshole before he's even got them running drills.

"Fine," he says levelly. "Well then, I guess you can call me Derek. Or actually, you should probably just call me Coach, come to think of it. Call me Coach. Please. Um…"

They just stand there and stare at him. Derek feels his skin crawling.

"Sorry, but are you actually _qualified_ to coach us?" the tall, good looking kid stood next to Stiles asks. Derek guesses that he’s probably the Scott guy.

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Well do you have like badges and stuff? I don't know. Have you trained to do this? Have you been on courses or anything?"

"Jesus Christ, I'm eighteen!” he snorts. “Of course I haven't been on any courses. But am I qualified? _Hell_ fucking _yeah_. I thought you said you knew who I was?"

The boy just looks back at him, wilting a little under Derek's glare. "I do. Everyone does."

"Then you'll know that I captained this very team from Freshman year all the way through to Junior year. You'll know I led the school to three consecutive finals, two of which we won. You'll know I was named as captain for this year too and you'll know the only reason I'm not actually playing right now is because I’ve been offered a scholarship to play Lacrosse at college next fall and I'm not contractually allowed to play any competitive game before then in case I injure myself. You know all that, don't you? If you know who I am."

Silence has fallen through the group and by the look of bewildered surprise written all over their faces, _no_ , they _didn’t_ know that. They don't know anything about him at all, actually, except probably the stuff about him being a man-whore and a heartbreaker. Which, you know, isn’t strictly false. But still.

"I was under the impression you guys didn't even have a full time coach," he went on, his voice calm. "I don't know about you, but I think I'm better than nothing. But if you don't agree, if you're concerned about me not being _qualified_ enough, then please tell me now and I will happily fuck off."

No one speaks. No one moves. No one does anything but stare at him. He chances a glance over at Stiles. He's looking at him with his eyebrows furrowed together, but he doesn't look angry or annoyed, just...mildly confused. Beyond that, Derek can't read anything. He hopes he hasn't made the wrong impression already.

"Okay," he says finally. "Let's start, then."

*

Derek stops Stiles at the end of the session after they’ve all gotten showered and changed. 

“You’re Stiles, right?” he says, trying desperately hard to keep his voice level and not give anything away.

The boy just looks him up and down with unimpressed brown eyes. “Yeah. You’re the almighty Derek Hale.”

“I am,” Derek nods, ignoring the biting sarcasm. “Enjoy the session?”

“It was average,” he shrugs. Derek thinks that he has a nice voice, low and rich and gravelly. “Nothing special.”

“Well, we’re only just getting started.”

“I won’t get my hopes up,” he says in a bored tone.

“Probably best,” Derek shrugs. “I haven’t exactly got much practise.”

“They must have been desperate.”

Derek sort of wants to smack him, slap him around a little until he’s not so hostile and bitchy. He’d kiss him all better afterwards though, obviously. He’d kiss him so good. “Must’ve been, yeah.”

"You know you had a thing with my girlfriend?” Stiles says then, his arms folded across his chest and his top lip curled back into a sneer that really shouldn't be so endearing.

"Lydia? Yeah, I guess I did. Very brief and not very memorable to be honest."

"I suppose they all start to blend into one after a while."

"Only the ones not worth remembering, mate,” Derek says coolly. “And she wasn't worth remembering in the slightest. No offence - maybe she does it for you."

"Best shag I've ever had," Stiles shrugs. “Blows my mind every time.”

"Oh," Derek flounders. "Well, each to their own."

"She said the same about you, you know," Stiles adds over his shoulder as he starts walking away. “Not-Very-Memorable Hale, she calls you."

Derek opens and shuts his mouth after him like a goldfish, angry and embarrassed and flustered. "That _bitch_ ," he hisses, and stalks off towards the car park. Great start.

*

It doesn’t get better. At training on Wednesday Stiles doesn’t even look his way once, and on Friday the only time they make eye contact is when the entire team is begging him to call off practice early because it’s sort of torrential raining and the pitch is flooding. Derek figures that’s as good an excuse as any really, considering he’s not being paid to stand out in the cold and wet and his feet keep sinking into the mud.

The next week doesn’t start off any better. Stiles either ignores him or makes snide remarks about his coaching skills, and Derek wouldn’t mind usually but it’s not like the team is actually any good themselves. In actual fact they’re absolutely shit, and suddenly Derek totally understands why none of the sports staff were willing to give up their free time to coach them. They can’t pass, their ball control is appalling, they can’t grasp the idea of possession, and not a single one of them is any good in goal. They’re an absolute disaster with no skills and no coordination and they’re all overweight or severely lanky and it would be sort of funny if Derek wasn’t in charge of making sure they didn’t make an absolute fool out of the school when the season started. But he is and so it’s not and as a result he spends every night that week laying in his bed and staring up at his ceiling trying to figure out what the hell to do with them.

Friday afternoon rolls around and it’s their sixth practice together. Stiles has new cleats on and Derek probably shouldn’t have noticed that, except it’s pretty goddamn hard to miss them when they’re _bright fucking pink_. He’s wearing this ridiculous tank top too, one that shows of a ridiculous amount of pale skin that Derek sort of wants to taste. And he’s a little shit and he’s cocky and he’s still hostile and sarcastic as hell but he’s also a ridiculously massive _dork_ and that sort of balances things out. Plus, every now and again Derek gets to watch Scott make Stiles laugh that stupid laugh of his and it makes his whole body tingle.

“Okay team,” Derek says once they’re all gathered together. “Today we’re not going to run drills. We’re going to split up into two teams and play a game, okay?”

Most of the team start groaning and complaining, and that’s not a good sign considering there’s just four weeks left until their first real game, but Derek just ignores it and points at Scott and Jackson, the only two boys on the team with the slightest bit of skill. “You two are captains. Pick your teams.”

“This is such bonehead bullshit,” Stiles mutters suddenly, appearing out of nowhere by his side. “You know that, right? Getting the jocks to pick the teams. It’s bonehead bullshit and it’s _cruel_.”

“They’re not _jocks_ ,” Derek hisses back through his teeth. “You’re _all_ jocks, if anything. You’re _all_ on the team. Stop being a baby and get on with it.”

Stiles just gives him a sideways look and rolls his eyes before stalking off on his abnormally long legs to re-join the others.

The game doesn’t go well. Derek was planning on having them play an hour, with four equal quarters and a break in-between each one. By the time the first quarter is over, though, he has no goals, three injuries, two hissy fits and a whole bunch of tired, frustrated boys on his hands.

“Fucking hell guys,” he grumbles as he crouches down to tend to the gushing wound on the titchy kid from the first session’s leg. “How many times have I told you that you can’t tackle in Lacrosse? It’s not soccer and it’s _dangerous_!”

“I thought you told us to screw with the opposition?” Scott says. “Make your mind up Coach.”

“I said screw _with_ , as in mentally,” Derek says exasperatedly. “Not screw _up_ as in tear holes in their limbs. And besides, Titch isn’t _actually_ your opposition! He’s your teammate!”

“I’m Max,” Titch protests from the floor. “My name is Max, not Titch.”

“Okay, Titch,” Derek sighs despondently. “We should get you patched up. There’s a first aid kit inside, I’ll go grab it and then we can carry on with the game.”

“But Coach!” Jackson whines. “We’ve all had enough!”

The rest of the team murmur their assent, and as Derek looks round at them all none of them even has the decency to look ashamed about it. They just stand there looking exhausted and weary and defeated and Derek sort of wants to reach forward and wring all of their necks. Even Stiles’.

“Fine,” he says eventually. “You all fuck off home, then. But let me just remind you that you have your first game four weeks tomorrow and most of you can’t even make it through twenty minutes of friendly play without crying like a girl.”

This time as they all trudge off to the changing rooms, a couple of them actually look a little guilty. Only a couple though, and that’s not really enough. When Derek was a junior and running the team with Isaac by his side and Erica on the sidelines he didn’t ever act like this. He lived for the sport; he looked forward to training sessions and then he went home afterwards to carry on practicing, carry on honing in on his technique and perfecting his skill. This lot couldn’t give two shits how they did and that makes him feel mad, firstly, but then also a little sad – because Lacrosse is a beautiful game and they should be _enjoying_ it, not resenting it.

Stiles is hovering by his side, helping Titch up onto his feet and giving him an arm to lean on as they hobble back in too. “We’ll try harder next time Coach,” he promises over his shoulder.

“No you won’t,” Derek sighs.

“No, we probably won’t,” Stiles says brightly, and Derek sort of feels like crying right there in the middle of the empty pitch.

*

Derek is exhausted, physically and mentally.

He’s taken to running the drills with the team himself, and when he’s not training them he’s thinking about training them, thinking about ways to help them improve, ways to make them a little bit less abominable. It’s taken a toll on his social life and Isaac and Erica aren’t happy about it.

“All this for one shag?” Erica says disapprovingly as Derek lies curled up on the floor in front of him after a particularly harrowing Monday night session. “He’s not even that _special_.”

“It’s not about that anymore,” Derek whimpers. “I don’t just want to sleep with him.”

“What do you want to do, then?”

“I don’t know. More. He’s funny, Erica. He’s a proper sarcastic little shit when he wants to be. And he’s the only one on the team with any sort of school spirit which is an absolute miracle considering he’s also the worst player by far. He’s like bambi on ice.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“It is,” he sighs. “And it’s not just that. I actually want to help them, you know? I don’t like the thought of them turning up to their first game and getting trampled over. That’s not nice.”

“Like you’d know. How many games have you lost in your entire life? Five?”

“Four,” Derek corrects matter-of-factly. “I don’t know what it is. I just don’t like the idea of them getting hurt.”

“You don’t like the idea of _Stilinski_ getting hurt,” Erica teases. “Because you’ve developed some sort of weird thing for the kid and you never want to see him fail. You want to see him fulfil all of his heart’s desires. You want to-”

“-piss off, Reyes.”

Erica smirks at him. “Shame he’s straight and spoken for, huh?”

Derek just scowls at her.

*

That Wednesday Stiles come up to him and stands beside him in silence, watching the others run their sets. Then, after a bit, he lifts up his arm and rests it with difficulty on Derek’s shoulder like it’s a fucking arm rest, because Derek is just that tall and Stiles is just that small in comparison. And hell, that should definitely not be as hot as it is. Derek just shrugs him off and pushes him away a little more forcefully than he intended, refusing to let himself start dreaming up any size-difference fantasies about the two of them. “Stilinski!” he barks. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles beams, looking anything but. “You’re just so built.It’s fascinating.”

“I am not _fascinating_ ,” he scowls, even though he’s been called much worse. “You’re just a skinny shrimp.”

“I’m a little smaller than average,” he shrugs, resting his arm back on Derek’s shoulder. “You’re significantly taller. Are you embarrassed about it? Does the almighty Derek Hale have a complex about how he towers over the rest of the school? Bless him.”

“You’re a first class arse, has anyone ever told you that?”

“Just you,” he smiles sweetly.

Derek’s scowl deepens. “Well you are. For reference.”

“Actually, I’m really not. I just like pissing you off.”

“Great. What did I do to deserve _that_?”

Stiles just shrugs. “For some reason the whole school gets off on kissing your ass. Maybe it’s time you started respecting people back.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“I’m taking you down a peg,” he says oh-so-seriously. He pulls his arm back and start walking over to the others. He turns at the last minute, brown eyes gleaming, his arrogance written all over his shitty, beautiful little face. “You’re welcome,” he adds, and turns his back on him for good.

*

Stiles is the world’s biggest little shit and it drives Derek mad the way the younger boy talks back to him and teases him and has him spluttering and flushing pink even though he’s two years older and about a million times more popular. It’s insane and Stiles has gotten right under his skin and Derek should hate him, Derek should at least be a little bit irritated, but he isn’t. He just finds Stiles endlessly endearing. Derek gives as good as he gets, though – he pokes fun at Stiles’s cleats and at his running style and how deep his voice is and he chooses him to demonstrate the drills he knows Stiles can’t do and then he keeps him back after training to collect up the cones just for the sheer hell of it. 

Stiles doesn’t flinch. He just takes it all in his stride and waits until the right moment to hit back at him with a sly comment about the size of his hands. 

Derek thinks he might just be in love.

*

Erica thinks otherwise.

“You really need to give it up, Derek,” she sighs one lunchtime. “Boyd reckons that even if he wasn’t straight you wouldn’t be his type.”

“You talked about Stiles and I with _Boyd_?” Derek says incredulously. “Shit, Erica, I get that he’s your boyfriend but do you really have to tell him _everything_?”

“I only tell him the interesting stuff,” she shrugs. “You pining over a straight fifteen year old is pretty hilarious.”

“One, I am not pining, two he is sixteen not fifteen and he’s almost seventeen and that is _totally_ within the two year rule, and three what the _hell_ makes him think I wouldn’t be Stiles’ type?”

“Because you’ve hooked up with like over a hundred people these past couple of years,” Erica points out calmly. “Stiles has been in a committed relationship for almost eight months. He’s clearly not the one night stand kind of guy.”

“And he probably doesn’t want his heart torn apart either,” Isaac adds helpfully.

 “Fuck off,” Derek scowls. “What the fuck is Lydia doing with a sixteen year old anyway? That’s gross.”

“Hypocrite.”

“That’s different,” he argues, flushing a deep pink. “I’m not a girl. She’s a total cougar and that’s not hot until the woman’s in her forties. Jesus. And _anyway_ , who says I have any intention of breaking his heart?”

“Because that’s what you _do_ ,” Erica says. 

“It is,” Isaac agrees brightly. “You're like the Pied Piper, except instead of rats you leave behind a trail of broken hearts."

"Unintentionally," Derek grumps. "Give a guy a break. I'm just trying to find the right one! I'm just trying to fall in love. Find my happy ever after."

"And in the meantime you continue to be a first class jerk and fuck people around."

"They come to me," Derek shrugs. "It’s not like I go looking. I’m not actively searching for people to let down, it just _happens_. It's like they _want_ to be let down. It's like they _want_ me not to call, it's like they _want_ me to be a dick, just so that they can come into school the next week and bitch about how much of a total prick I am."

"They can't resist Derek Hale," Isaac says seriously, but the corners of his mouth are turned up slightly into a smirk and so Derek has to punch him, hard.

"You're just jealous because you've never had a taste," Derek spits. The end of lunch bell rings out tinnily in the distance.

"Oh _please_ , Derek," Isaac pants and makes grabby hands at him, his voice all breathy. "I love you Derek, I need you Derek, I can’t resist you Derek, please suck my dick, Derek, I'm absolutely _gagging_ for it…"

"Fuck off," Derek scowls, jumping down off of the wall. “All of you can just fuck right off.”

“Catch you after school?” Erica says, jumping down after him.

“Nope. I’ve got training.”

“Of course you have,” Isaac smirks, and Derek punches him again, this time so hard that he’s still clutching his arm and wailing in pain when they make it back inside.

*

It’s their eleventh training session. The boys manage to complete the drills almost perfectly for the first time ever. The boys minus Stiles, that is, who somehow manages to trip over his own feet twice, messing up all the cones in the process. He is quite literally the most awkward, uncoordinated person Derek has ever met, and Derek can’t for the life of him figure out why the poor boy would want to put himself through this every single time when he had a _choice_.

They finish with some goalie training since they still haven’t found anyone good enough. Derek sticks one person at a time in-between the posts and then has the rest of them throw balls at him. Everyone manages to save at least one shot. Except Stiles. His complete lack of skill makes Derek want to throttle him just a little, but goddamnit the guy just _tries_ so hard. He’s absolutely awful but he tries and it’s not like Derek can ask for anything more than that.

Derek follows them into the changing room after practise because he’s hot and sweaty and could do with a shower. When he comes out, Stiles is just finishing getting changed. He’s pulling his school shirt of his head, but not quite quick enough because Derek catches sight of the multitude of bruises scattered across his arms and chest.

“Blood hell Stilinski. Difficult home life?”

Stiles blinks at him, before looking down at his chest. “Oh! No. Not at all.”

“Where’d you get them from, then? Lydia? Has she turned into a wild one?”

The younger boy lets out a bark of laughter and quickly stifles it with the back of his hand. “No,” he says then. “From the balls. And the studs. And falling over so much. I bruise easy and I’m pretty clumsy, so…”

"Goddamnit Stiles," Derek huffs. "No offence but you are absolutely _appalling_ at this game."

"Don't blame me," Stiles snorts. "Blame my coach. He's the one in charge."

Derek just rolls his eyes. "Your coach can only work with what he's given, mate. And you've given him absolutely sweet FA if I'm honest. I mean, come _on_! Lacrosse is _clearly_ not your calling, so why do you do it? Why not do something else, like baking or knitting."

Stiles glowers at him from the bench. "I fully resent your condescending tone of voice, _Hale_. Baking takes a lot of well-honed skill, I’ll have you know. It takes time and practice and lots of perfecting. Baking is _art_."

Derek bites his tongue to stop himself blurting out something else offensive. "You're right," he says eventually, once he's gathered himself together, because Stiles looks strangely angry and defensive about the whole thing. "Sorry."

"Don't apologise for saying shit about something you know nothing about, just don't do it again," he says shortly, bending down to lace up his trainers. He straightens up, brushes his jeans down, and finally meets Derek's eye. "I do Lacrosse because I like a challenge," he says then. "Because there is no fun in just doing the things that you're good at. It's the same with making friends. You don't want to know the pushovers."

" _I'm_ a challenge," Derek says. "How come you're not trying to be my friend?"

"You're not a challenge," Stiles scoffs. "You just like to play hard to get. There's a difference."

"I do not _play_ hard to get," he protests. "I _am_ hard to get."

"Yeah? Tell that to everyone you've ever hooked up with. Which would, incidentally, be the entirety of sixth form."

Derek narrows his eyes at him. "You know what? You're pretty fucking cocky, Stilinski. I didn't realise you were going to be such an arrogant little sod."

Stiles just raises an eyebrow as he slings his bag over his shoulder. He looks Derek up and down, those obscene lips of his curving upwards into a smirk that Derek wanted to lick straight off of his face. "Mutual," he says then, and stalks out of the room.

Derek sinks down onto the bench and leans his head back against the lockers. Stiles is a cocky little shit and he is so not interested in Derek that it actually hurts.

Derek thinks that just makes him want the younger boy even more.

*

The next day Derek catches sight of Stiles in the courtyard at lunch with a massive table full of cakes and cookies and biscuits in front of him, raising money for the new hospital wing. And _oh shit_. Stiles fucking bakes, doesn’t he? Lacrosse isn’t Stiles’s thing, because _baking_ is. Now Derek knows why Stiles was being such a moody prick yesterday – because Derek flat out _insulted_ him. Stiles bakes cakes and he does stuff for charity and he tries hard at absolutely everything and he has the best laugh in the whole fucking world and Derek is so gone for him it’s ridiculous.

Derek has been hovering too long at the edge of the scene, and it’s as if Stiles can feel him, sense him, because he turns around to face him.

Derek raises an eyebrow. Stiles raises a cake. 

_Oops_ Derek mouths over at him, and Stiles just shakes his head in amusement before flipping him off and turning back and carrying on as if nothing had happened.

*

Stiles is the biggest pain in the arse Derek has ever met and he just _can’t_ play ball to save his life, and yet he turns up every single session with his pink cleats and his white arms out on display and it pretty much drives Derek insane.

"Give it up mate," Isaac tells him one day after a particularly stressful session of non-stop back and forth bickering. "He's not interested and the whole thing is making you kind of weird."

But Derek won't give it up. Not until Stiles stands right in front of his face and looks him dead in the eye and actually _tells_ him he's not interested. Not until then.

*

"I'm not interested," Stiles says.

"You don't really get a choice," Derek frowns, mentally kicking himself right in the gonads. "The whole team is going out to eat. It's a bonding thing in preparation for your first match next week and Coach wants you all there."

"Thought _you_ were coach?"

Derek blushes a little. "I mean the _real_ coach. Head coach. Finstock. He says it'll be good for the team and that I am to drag you all there myself if you try to make excuses."

"Well, I can't come," he shrugs. He slings his bag over his shoulder and pushes away from his locker where Derek had cornered him at the end of the day at the last bell. "I've already made plans."

"To do _what_?"

Stiles gave him a funny look. "To drink too much and get wasted, probably. It's a Friday, what do you expect?"

"Just an hour," Derek says. "Come for just an hour, and then you can fuck off out with your little mates and get drunk. Alright? For the team."

"Well I sure as hell wasn't going to do it for you," he snorts. 

"So you'll be there?" Derek says, jogging to catch up with Stiles's long strides as he stalks away. "The Blue Lotus at eight?"

"An hour," Stiles says curtly. "That's it."

"Fine," Derek scowls, and then Stiles is off, already ten paces ahead, leaving Derek in his dust just like always.

*

The meal is dull. Stiles sits at the other end of the table to Derek with Scott and so Derek is stuck with the defenders Chase and Smith, and they do nothing but talk about girls in their year. Derek hates gossiping and Derek isn’t overly fond of either of the boys and so he spends most of the time looking longingly down at Stiles wishing he was sat with him instead – because even if the two of them spent the entire meal bickering at least it would keep him entertained.

Sometimes when he looks over at Stiles he catches Stiles looking back. They share a roll of their eyes and a shake of their heads and then the two of them go back to their conversations. At least Stiles looks interested in his.

An hour comes and goes. Stiles doesn’t.

In fact, Stiles stays right to the end, through the starter and the main course and the dessert and the fortune cookies and then they all split the bill together and go their separate ways and then it’s just him alone at the bus stop. Derek wishes he’d taken the car – the evening has been a bit of a let-down and he _just_ can’t be arsed to stand around in the cold and wait for the bus. Suddenly, though, he’s not alone. Stiles is right there beside him.

“What are you still doing here?” Derek asks him, shoving his hands deep into his pocket. “You should have been long gone by now. I thought you said an hour?”

“I say a lot of things,” he shrugs. 

“Right.” Derek looks to the left and to the right for the bus, both ways down a completely empty street as if one was suddenly going to just _appear_ in front of him. “You didn’t want to leave with Scott?”

“He’s seeing Allison. His girlfriend.” 

Derek just nods. “Well, you can go now. To that party or wherever.”

“I will,” Stiles says, but he doesn’t make any move to leave. 

“What are you waiting for, then?” he frowns. 

“You,” Stiles says.

“Me?”

“Yeah. I mean, if you’ve not got plans or anything. You should come along, have a few drinks. It’ll be a laugh.”

“But _why_?” Derek says weakly. “It’s not like we’re _friends_.”

“Because I know how fucking irritating Chase and Smith are,” Stiles growls. “And you’ve just put up with them like a saint for two and a half hours, so, yeah, you deserve a drink or five. Even if we’re _not_ friends. Which I sort of thought we were, but whatever.”

Derek just stares at him. “But you _hate_ me.”

“Trust me, Hale, if I hated you I would not have shown up tonight,” he snorts. “Now are you coming or not?”

“I’m coming,” he says dumbly.

*

Derek has had seven drinks. Stiles has had more. Stiles is smiling, and Derek doesn’t ever remember a time before where Stiles really, truly smiled at him. Derek likes Stiles’s smile. He likes the shape of the lips and how they curve upwards and the little fine crinkles by the corners of his eyes. And _fuck_ , Derek is drunk.

There’s not a single person in the house from Beacon Hills High and that shakes him a little bit because he’s so used to everyone knowing his name, everyone knowing who he is. Here no one even looks at him twice, nobody gives a shit about who he is or who he’s hooked up with and that’s weird but it’s also _nice_.

Stiles hasn’t left his side the whole night, even though everybody in the place wants a piece of him. He sticks by Derek and talks to him and laughs with him and they still bicker and they still tease each other, but the more alcohol they drink the less bite there is behind their words. When people ask Stiles who Derek is, Stiles doesn’t tell them that he’s his coach. He tells him he’s his _friend_ , and Derek thinks the last five weeks of utter hell might just have been worth it. 

*

It’s late and Derek is delirious and Stiles is still by his side and all this time Derek has wanted _more_ than that, but right now it’s enough.

“Why isn’t Lydia here?” Derek asks suddenly, halfway through a conversation about the merits of tequila flavoured beer. “I thought you two were dating.”

“Nope,” Stiles says with a lazy grin, swigging on his bottle.

“You’re not?”

“Nope.”

“Oh,” Derek says. “Did you…did you break up or something?”

“Nope. We were never together.”

Derek just looks at him in confusion. “You _weren’t_?”

“No. I mean we are, but we’re not. She’s not my girlfriend, she’s my…she’s _pretend_. She pretends to be my girlfriend so that I can pretend to be interested in girls and then-”

“- _wait_ ,” Derek says dumbly. “You don’t like girls? You’re not with Lydia?”

“Nope and nope,” he shrugs. 

“But why…why didn’t you say? Why do you have to pretend?”

“Because I don’t like girls,” he repeats slowly. “I mean, it’s different for you. People hear that you’re into girls and boys and they sort of gloss over the boy part and focus on the girl part. They can’t do that for me. They’d make my life hell and I don’t want that.”

Derek frowns at him, his eyebrows furrowed together. “But that’s…that’s not fair on you, Stiles. To pretend to be something you’re not just so that people don’t judge you for being yourself.”

“Life _isn’t_ fair,” he mumbles. “I’m sixteen years old, what else am I supposed to do? I’m not cool like you, I’m not popular, I don’t have the whole school eating out of my hand. I just have to wait it out, that’s all. Then I’ll go off to college and I won’t have to hide anything anymore. It’s fine, it’s just two years. I can make it.”

“You shouldn’t have to _make_ it!”

“Derek!” Stiles says firmly, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “It’s _fine_. I’m happy, I promise.”

Derek looks at him warily. “Are…are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he smiles. “Let’s go get another drink.”

*

They’re upstairs, shut away in a bedroom with a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses. Derek is well and truly drunk, but Stiles is warm by his side and his brown eyes burn brightly so everything is just fine. Derek’ skin is on fire, little pinpricks of flames in all the places where Stiles has touched him – a hand on his shoulder, fingers wrapped around his wrist. Stiles is burning and Derek is on fire and still everything is okay.

They sit opposite each other on the carpet with their legs crossed. They don’t even have to talk. Stiles does though, because Stiles always does. 

“You look worried.”

“I’m not,” Derek says quickly. “I mean, I’m…”

Stiles tilts his head to the side, regards Derek with those burning brown eyes of his. “You’re still thinking about what I said earlier, aren’t you?”

“I just…I don’t know how you do it. It must be so hard.”

“It is,” he says softly. “Sometimes. But mostly it’s okay.”

Derek just frowns at him, his mind foggy with alcohol. “How could it possibly be okay?”

“Well, for a start pretending to date a hot girl two years older than me has done wonders for my street cred – and in my spare time I still get to hook up with acouple of people from out of town every once in a while. It’s the best of both worlds, really, and no one even notices when I check out the cute boys at school.”

“Oh,” Derek says. “Are there many, then?”

“A few,” he shrugs. “But you know all about that, don’t you?”

Derek pours out a shot of vodka for them each, spilling a little over the sides because he’s sort of plastered already, and he probably shouldn’t be drinking this but _what the hell_. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he says, passing one to Stiles. They clink the glasses together and then knock them back in unison.

Stiles wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “They call you The Heartbreaker. I imagine that comes from somewhere, huh? Have you _actually_ hooked up with all the people they say you have or is it just exaggeration?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know what I think,” he says. His brown eyes roam across Derek’ face, studying. “I know what I’d _like_ to think.”

“And what’s that?”

“Probably not what’s actually true.” He half-smiles. “Why do you do it, Derek? Here I am holding everything back and you’re just giving it all away.”

“Remember when you said that they must all start to blend into one?” Derek says slowly, and Stiles nods. “Well, they do. They do and it’s shit, and all I’m looking for is the one who _doesn’t_ blend. Someone who means something and someone who feels _different_.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “You’re a hopeless romantic at heart, are you?”

“Tell anyone and I swear to god I will kill you,” Derek warns, but Stiles is already rolling around the floor with laughter and then Derek is laughing too and it feels so good to just be _laughing_ together after so many weeks of snide remarks and dirty looks and incessant bickering. 

“You’re alright,” Stiles says finally once the giggling has stopped. “I used to think you were a bit of a tosser, but you’re alright.”

“Well I still think you’re a little shit,” Derek snorts. “…but I guess you’re alright too.”

“It’s a shame you’re graduating this year,” he says. “I feel like we could’ve been good friends.”

“We still _can_ be,” Derek says quietly. “Can’t we?”

“Yeah,” Stiles murmurs, and they’re sat there on the carpet just _looking_ at each other. Derek doesn’t think he’s ever seen Stiles this open, this relaxed, this _soft_. 

“You nervous about the game?” Derek breathes.

“How can I be? I’ve got the best Coach in the business.”

Derek grins at that, wide and big and happy. “We should get going,” he suggests, climbing to his feet. “They’ll wonder where we got to.”

“They won’t care,” Stiles says, but he’s hoisting himself up too. Derek gives him the thumbs up and flicks off the light, plunging the room into darkness as Stiles stumbles across the floor with the vodka. He goes to open the door – except suddenly Stiles is there, right in front of him and in his space and he’s looking right into Derek’ eyes and then he’s leaning in and Stiles is _kissing_ him. Stiles is pushing him up against the door and pinning him there with soft hands and he’s licking into Derek’ mouth and biting his lip and setting him on fire from the inside out.

When Stiles finally pulls away the dark room is filled with nothing but the sound of panting. Derek can’t move, he can’t think, he can’t _breathe_.

“What was _that_ for?” he says dumbly, and his voice is weak and low and he doesn’t sound like himself at all.

Stiles loosens his grip on Derek’ shoulders and takes a step back. He takes a moment to compose himself, and then when he’s looking back up at Derek he’s smirking and his eyes have lost their softness. “Can’t be the only gay guy in school you haven’t made out with,” he shrugs, and opens the bedroom door.

*

Derek wakes up on Saturday morning with a cracking headache and Cora watching the television in the next room at a criminal volume. He buries his face in his pillow and falls back to sleep.

*

When he wakes up next it’s four o’clock in the afternoon. He checks his phone. There’s nothing from Stiles, no message or missed call. Derek wouldn’t expect there to be, really, except for the fact that Stiles had asked for his number last night when Derek gave him a chaste kiss goodbye on his doorstep. 

Derek doesn’t mind though. It’s just Stiles and it was just a bit of kissing and so Derek doesn’t mind.

*

Sunday comes and goes and Stiles doesn’t call. All Derek keeps thinking about is what he said to him after he’d kissed him in that dark room. _Can’t be the only gay guy in school you haven’t made out with._ Like Derek was some sort of game, some sort of joke. Like Derek doesn’t have any feelings, like he wouldn’t _mind_.

Derek minds though, actually, and Derek is really fucking pissed off because he doesn’t deserve this.

*

Derek doesn’t see Stiles all day until four o’clock, where they’re out on the field ready to start practise. He meets Derek’ eye and offers him this huge, dazzling grin. Derek just looks away. Stiles’s still wearing his pink cleats and his arms are still out and he still looks like an _idiot_ and Derek just wants to punch him in the face so that he knows what it feels like to hurt. But Derek doesn’t. Derek just sets them the toughest, most tiring drills he knows and watches while Stiles struggles through them, his smile gradually slipping. Derek should feel better about the whole thing, but the truth is he just _doesn’t_.

*

Derek sees Stiles a good handful of times during the day on Tuesday. He sees him from across the canteen at break and on the field at lunch and handing out cookies in the courtyard at the end of the day. Derek sees Stiles a good handful of times, but he doesn’t acknowledge him. He doesn’t smile or wave or even look his way, and it’s hard but Derek does it anyway and even then he doesn’t feel better.

*

Derek manages to avoid Stiles throughout the whole of Wednesday, but then it’s time for practice again and Stiles is there on the pitch with his pink cleats and his stupid lovely mouth and he’s early and he’s waiting for Derek.

“Hi,” he says.

Derek doesn’t meet his eye – he just crouches down to the ground to re-tie his trainer instead. “Hey.”

“Are we okay, Derek? Because you’ve-”

“-Coach,” Derek cuts him off, straightening up. “Not Derek. I’m your _Coach_ , not your friend.”

Stiles just blinks at the back of his head as he walks away.

*

Training is hard. 

It’s their last practice before the game on Saturday since Finstock doesn’t believe in training the night before, and the team is a mess of nerves – it doesn’t matter how many times Derek stands there in front of them and promises them that they’ll be absolutely fine or runs through their basic formations with them over and over again.

They’re been reduced almost to tears by the time the two hours is up. Derek just waves them in with a resigned sigh and tells them to get rest for the weekend. Stiles dithers a bit as Derek goes around collecting up the cones and the leftover balls but by the time Derek’s done he’s gone. He doesn’t think about it, he just hauls the equipment back across the field towards the changing rooms so he can lock up after them.

Stiles is the last out. Derek isn’t even mildly surprised.

Derek locks the door after him and picks up the balls and the cones again. “Derek?” Stiles says, for the first time sounding something that vaguely resembles timid.

Derek starts walking over to the sports hall. “Not now, Stiles.”

He unlocks the sports hall door and then the door of the equipment cupboard, and he’s halfway in when Stiles speaks again, right behind him.

“Derek,” he says, and he’s _actually_ followed Derek inside. Christ. “Can I talk to you?”

“I’m busy,” Derek says. He throws the bag of balls and the cones into the cupboard and steps back out, locking the door after him and turning on his heels, leaving Stiles behind. Stiles doesn’t get the message though – he just runs after him, his long legs making quick work of Derek’ own strides.

“Derek, I just want to talk. I don’t know what happened but I thought we were getting along and now it’s like you won’t even talk to me. Have I done something?”

Derek ignores him. He hangs the keys up on the hook by the office door and takes down his car keys, slipping on his jacket as he heads out of the building and towards the car park. Stiles follows. All he has to do is make it to his Corsa and then he’ll be fine, then he’ll be able to drive away and leave Stiles behind. Then he won’t have to face up to _this_.

“Derek! Would you just hang _on_ a second?”

Derek keeps on walking. He presses the unlock button and the doors click and he’s _so close_ , just a few more metres. Just a few more steps and he’ll be safe. He’ll be-

“-Derek _please_!” Stiles begs, and finally Derek stops, finally Derek whirls around to face him, because he can’t take anymore.

“ _What_?” he snaps, eyes flashing and lips curled back over bared teeth. Stiles barely recognises him, and that makes his chest hurt. “What do you _want_?”

Stiles looks at him with wide eyes. “N-nothing,” he stammers, and Derek clenches his jaw and carries on walking away.

*

Stiles shows up on Derek’ doorstep Thursday evening, uninvited. Derek didn’t even know that Stiles had any idea where he lived. Apparently there are still a lot of things about the younger boy that Derek doesn’t know, despite the past few weeks.

“Hi,” Stiles says shyly when Derek opens the door.

Derek just looks at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to say sorry,” he mumbles. “About Saturday. I was drunk and I messed up real bad and I just…I shouldn’t have kissed you, okay? It was a mistake.”

Derek crosses his arms across his chest, leans back against the doorframe. “Okay.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly a _mistake_ but…I mean I _meant_ to do it. I _wanted_ to do it.”

“Then why was it a mistake?”

“Because I clearly freaked you out,” he says, his cheeks flushed a bright red. “Because I’m younger than you, maybe, or because I’m still not out, or because you’re my coach…I don’t know, but you obviously weren’t comfortable with what happened that night. I mean, Christ Derek. You’ve barely _spoken_ to me since.”

“Because you said that the reason why you did it was because you didn’t want to be _left out_ ,” Derek hisses. “That’s why. Not because you’re sixteen because I don’t give a shit and not because you’re not out because that’s your choice not mine and _definitely_ not because I’m your coach. Because you acted like a dick and you used me for your own entertainment.”

“I-I didn’t!” Stiles argues desperately. “I mean, I _said_ I did, but I didn’t. I made that up, the whole thing. That’s not why I did it, Derek. That’s not why I kissed you.”

“Then why _did_ you?”

“Because you’re funny,” Stiles mumbles. “Because you’re fucking terrifying but underneath it all you’re actually really sweet and you’re nice to everyone and patient and you’re so sure of yourself and you’re bloody gorgeous and also it was a little bit because I was drunk but mostly it was just because I think you’re amazing.”

Derek just stares at him. “Stiles…”

“I know,” he says quickly, blushing even harder. “And that’s lame and embarrassing but that’s the truth. _That’s_ why I kissed you.”

Derek feels suddenly hot and cold at the same time. Stiles is standing on his doorstep, looking up at him with wide brown eyes and telling him that he has feelings for him. Six weeks ago all Derek wanted to do was have the younger boy in front of him on his knees, but this is so much better. This is way more than he could ever dream up.

“I was never interested in coaching,” he admits quietly. “Stiles, I heard you were on the team and that you didn’t have a coach and I just…I had to volunteer, didn’t I? I couldn’t stop myself. I had to know you. And you were a little shit and you made everything a hundred times more difficult and it’s lame and embarrassing but I’m so glad I volunteered, Stiles. I’m _so_ glad.”

“I’m glad you did too,” Stiles says quietly. “I always thought you were hot but I didn’t realise I was actually going to end up being really into you, too.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Derek says. “I like you and you like me so why did you lie? Why did you ignore me and act like nothing happened?”

“Because it’s not that easy,” he frowns. “Just because I like you and you like me doesn’t mean we should be together. We _can’t_ be together, Derek. I can’t…I mean, I just couldn’t _be_ with you.”

Derek just stares at him. “What? What do you mean? Why not?”

“Because you’ll break my heart,” Stiles says weakly. “You’ll get bored and you’ll figure out that I’m not any different from the others and I don’t mean anything and that I just _blend_ and you’ll move on. You’ll break my heart, Derek, and I’m not going to just sign up for that knowingly. I can’t do that to myself.”

“I won’t break your heart,” Derek says flatly. “Stiles, I won’t.”

“You _will_ ,” he says. “That’s what you _do_.”

Derek shakes his head furiously. “Not anymore. Not since I met you. Because you _are_ different and you _do_ mean something.”

“That’s how you feel now, but give it a week or two…”

“No,” he argues. “I’m not going to break your heart in a week or two. Not in a month or two, either. Not even in a year or two, if you’ll keep me around that long.”

“But I _can’t_ keep you!”

“You _can_! It’s your choice, Stiles. Everything is your choice. Choose _me_.”

“I want to. Jesus, I want to. But you’ll _hurt_ me Derek,” Stiles says frantically. “You won’t mean to, probably, but you’ll hurt me all the same. You can’t help it and I wouldn’t blame you. It’s just how you are.”

“It’s _not_ , though! I don't _want_ to hurt you! I want to hold you and kiss your hair and tell you that you look beautiful in the sunlight and all that sappy shit because that’s how you make me feel. _Jesus_ Stiles. I want to tell you that you look hot in shorts and that you’re cute when you play Lacrosse and I want to tell you that your stupid smile make my knees week and the sound of your voice makes my chest hurt. I want you to _know_ , Stiles.”

“But…but you can’t,” he says dumbly. “You’re Derek Hale.”

“So?”

“So you break hearts. _You break hearts_.”

“Not yours,” he says again. “I swear to god I won't ever break yours.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles chokes. “I really, really am. But with your track record that’s not really a chance I’m willing to take. I was doing fine, Derek. I was doing fine before you showed up.”

“No you weren’t,” Derek says flatly. “You weren’t and you know it.”

“Two more years,” he carries on weakly. “Two more years and everything will be okay.”

“Fine,” Derek snaps. And he’s done, he’s _so_ _done_ with this. He’s so sick of fighting for someone who won’t fight for him back.

“I mean, you’re going off to college!” Stiles gabbles. “It’s not like you’re going to be around for much longer anyway. It’s not like we would’ve had time. It’s not like we could even _be_ together. You’re leaving and I’m not and-”

“-I _said_ it was fine,” he cut him off. “God, Stiles. You’ve clearly made up your mind, so why are you even here?”

Stiles opens his mouth, hesitates, and then shuts it again. “I just…I just wanted to say sorry,” he says eventually.

“And you said it,” Derek sniffs. “Job done, Stiles. Goodbye.”

“But I-”

“- _goodbye_ ,” he repeats firmly, and then he shuts the door in Stiles’s face.

*

Derek almost doesn’t go to the game. 

He’s all set not to go, actually, until Isaac and Erica and even bloody _Boyd_ turn up on his doorstep declaring that they’re invoking an intervention. Because Derek has been a complete mess all week, apparently, and they’re sick of it. Derek is sort of sick of it too, to be honest.

“You have to go,” Isaac tells him from where he’s leant up against the inside of his bedroom door. “You’ve spent the last six weeks training them so that they can go out there today and do themselves proud. You can’t just miss it.”

“Yeah Derek,” Erica agrees from his bed. “Think about how they’ll feel if you get them this far and leave them at the altar.”

Derek just rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ Erica, me and the team aren’t getting _married_.”

“But they’re still your _team_ , Derek! They’re still yours and they still need you. You can’t let them down.”

He scowls at her and then he scowls at Isaac and then he looks over at Boyd who is cowering awkwardly in the corner and he scowls at him too just for the hell of it. “I thought you were against the whole coaching thing?”

Isaac and Erica share a look across the room. “Well, we were,” Isaac says slowly. “Because we didn’t see you as much and you were always going on about how annoying they were. But then we realised how much it actually meant to you.”

“You’re good at it, Derek,” Erica says lightly. “You’re good with them and they like you and you’ve tried hard and you’ve helped them and they need you today. And you’re just going to sit here in your bedroom and mope for the rest of your life because some hipster twat isn’t interested in shagging you.”

“He is,” Derek says glumly. 

“He _is_?” Erica echoes. “What? Since when? Derek! He’s into you? Then what’s the problem? Why aren’t you over there right now being his personal cheerleader?”

“Because he thinks I’m nothing but a coldblooded heartbreaker and he’s scared I’m going to break his heart,” he said glumly. 

“Then prove to him you _won’t_ , Derek. Prove to him you won’t treat him like the rest and prove to him that you care about him. Because it’s a little bit sickening, but you clearly do. And you know where you can start?”

“Where?” Derek says.

“By not leaving him and the rest of the team in the lurch when they need you most,” she says firmly. “Now grab your coat and do something with your bloody hair. The game starts in an hour.”

*

The stands are packed out with supporters, with family and friends of both teams and of kids from the school. Derek gives the team a quick _fuck ‘em up boys_ team talk and then he joins the others right in the middle of the stand, surrounded and engulfed by the crowd.

Derek doesn’t know what to expect from a bunch of uncoordinated, unshapely boys who have only been playing together for six weeks. He knows he’s managed to teach them a few things over the sessions and he knows that they’ve gelled more than he could have hoped since the meal on Friday. He knows he’s taken them from abominable to average but he just isn’t sure if that’s _enough_.

It is, though. The teams are evenly matched for most of the first half, but Scott shoots up from the left hand side and tosses a complete screamer into the net just before the halftime whistle blows and from there on in they just seem to _click_. 

The other team score not long into the second half but the boys don’t let it get to them. Titchy Max weaves in and out of their defenders and hurls the ball through the air and over the line a few minutes later and brings the score back up to 2-1. The other team’s second goal, however, takes a bigger swipe at their confidence. They still play well and they still play together but they’ve lost their spark and that makes Derek sad. They look miserable out there on the pitch even though they’re still trying their hardest, and he wishes he could go down there and start a bundle and tell them all that he’s proud but he can’t and so he just sits there and watches. 

There’s ten minutes left and the score is still equal at 2-2.Five minutes. Three minutes. Two minutes. One and a half, and then suddenly Stiles is there, tackling one of their burly midfielders and scooping the ball up with his net, and then he’s racing towards the goal with his curls bouncing everywhere. He hesitates right in front of the goalie, a split second of nerves, and then he’s making that last toss and the ball is in the back of the net and the whistle blows and they’ve _won_. They’ve won their first ever game and Derek thinks his chest might just explode right open there and then.

The whole stand erupts around him, but he’s still seated, still looking down at Stiles. Stiles is looking back up at him, standing frozen to the spot. His eyes meet Derek’s. He looks wary and then sad and then sorry and he _shouldn’t_. He’s just won the game for the team and he should look proud and happy and it’s not right, so Derek smiles down at him and gives him two big thumbs up. Stiles beams back at him, his smile so big and wide and real, and Derek is breathless from it, dizzy and hopeless and head over heels and suddenly he knows that whatever he said before he’ll always keep on fighting for him.

*

Derek goes into the changing room after to bundle them all to the floor and tell them all how proud of them he is and how great they are and how much they have to look forward to. He doesn’t look at Stiles even though he feels Stiles’ brown eyes looking at him. He sends them of to the shower and they all go, excited and happy and high on adrenaline. All except for Stiles.

“Derek,” he says.

“Stiles.”

A silence falls over them.

“Are…are you angry at me?” Stiles asks. “Do you hate me?”

“Trust me, Stilinski, if I hated you I would not have shown up today,” he says flatly. 

Stiles flinches, because those were his words and now they’re being thrown back at him. “Look, Derek, I-”

“-you know what?” Derek cuts him off, stepping forward. “I am _so_ much more than what you give me credit for, Stiles. I am a good friend, I am reliable, I am patient. I am a good brother and I am a _great_ coach and I’m _amazing_ at FIFA and apparently I’m pretty much the _best_ at Lacrosse. Stiles, I am so much more than just a _heartbreaker_. What you said wasn’t fair.”

I know,” Stiles says. “Oh god, I know. And I am so, so sorry.”

Derek doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Stiles and Stiles looks right back. Derek clears his throat. “You played well, by the way.”

“Learnt from the best,” Stiles says honestly. “I’m glad you were there to see it. I’m glad you came.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“I know.”

“You’re a little _shit_ , Stiles Stilinski. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Stiles breathes. “But I swear to god if you give me the chance I’ll make it up to you. I won’t be a dick anymore. I won’t hurt you. I won’t…I won’t break your heart.”

Derek takes a step closer. Stiles follows suit. Suddenly they’re face to face, nose to nose, just millimetres apart. “And I think we’ve already established I have no intention of breaking yours.”

“I guess that means we’re stuck with each other, then,” Stiles murmurs. “How does that sound?”

Derek just surges forward, pulls the younger boy flush against him and kisses him hard in response.

*

Coach Finstock ushers them all into the staffroom afterwards to give them a congratulatory speech. There’s soft drinks there, and food, and a whole platter full of the most delicious cookies Derek has ever tasted, courtesy of the boy pressed up against his side.

Derek can’t wait to get away. He can’t wait to drag Stiles back onto the pitch, to kiss him senseless illuminated by the floodlights, to sneak him under the bleachers and make out until neither one of them can remember their own name. Derek wants to do so much to Stiles, and if the way Stiles flutters around him thrumming with pent up energy is anything to go by, he feels exactly the same.

But Derek can’t get away, because there’s a constant stream of people coming up to him and congratulating him on their win and his coaching and it’s nice, it’s really nice, but Stiles is warm against his side and once he slips his hand into Derek’s back pocket he sort of loses the ability to listen or speak coherently which is decidedly unhelpful.

Coach, the real one, is the last person to approach the two of them. He eyes how close they’re standing, but barely looks surprised at all. 

“Hale,” he says, rounding in on him when he gets close enough. “A word?”

Derek detaches himself nervously from Stiles and nods, following the coach out of the room and into the corridor outside. Finstock stands with one hand on his hip, one hand absently stroking the whistle around his neck, eyeing Derek up.

“Well,” he says finally. “I don’t know how you did it, Hale, but you really turned that team around. They looked pretty good out there. I think, with some real work, that they could be brilliant.”

Derek doesn’t bother trying to hold back the beam that spreads across his face. “Thank you, Coach.”

“You’ve got a real talent, kid,” he goes on. “I’ve had loads of the boys coming into my office and gushing their praises about you. You’re going to college in fall, right?”

“That’s the plan,” Derek said.

“Have you ever thought of going somewhere closer to home?” Finstock asked. “I know the local university isn’t as flashy but they offer a really good sports scholarship system too. And if you were around, I’m sure there’d be a permanent coaching position here, too. We could send you on a few courses, get you fully qualified…”

He trails off, cocking an eyebrow as he waits for Derek’s reaction. Derek doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t even know what to think. The past five years all he’s thought about is getting the hell out of this town, but staying closer by would mean he’d get to stay with Cora. What had he been so desperate to run away from? Was it just the fact that before this term he didn’t have much worth staying for?

“I’ll think about it,” Derek says eventually. “…But that sounds amazing.”

“Good man,” Finstock says happily. He turns to head back into the staffroom and then pauses, looking over his shoulder at Derek. “And Stilinski? Really?”

“Afraid so,” he grins, and Finstock makes a noise of amusement before disappearing.

Derek finds Stiles in the corner on his own. His whole face lights up when he catches sight of him, and he bounds over like a fucking puppy, goofy smile stretched across his beautiful face. Derek is so gone it’s beyond funny.

“What did he want?” Stiles asks, slotting himself back against Derek’s side like he’s always belonged there.

“Asked me if I wanted a job here when I graduate,” Derek shrugs. He tilts his head down to register Stiles’ reaction. “So it looks like I might be sticking around Beacon Hills a few years longer. What do you think about that, Stilinski?”

“I think you’re an idiot if you thought you were going to get away from me that easily,” Stiles says, voice incredibly soft. He rocks up on his toes and presses a chaste kiss against Derek’s mouth, and Derek feels like he might just float away.

“Let’s get out of here,” he murmurs into Stiles’ lips, and Stiles nods, tangling their fingers together and leading him swiftly away from the rest of the team.

Behind them, Jackson and Scott lead the boys into a chorus of catcalls and wolf whistles, but Stiles and Derek just laugh as run down the corridor, footsteps echoing around them. They come to rest in a deserted room, and Derek shuts the door behind them, crowding Stiles up against it like he’d done to him the other night. He lines their bodies up until they’re pressed together the whole way, joined, entangled, until it’s impossible to tell where one of them ends and the other starts. He leans in close, breath ghosting over Stiles’ lips, hovering. 

Then, finally, he kisses him. And it’s different from before, it’s more real and more desperate and just _more_ and Stiles tastes so sweet and Derek is dizzy with it. They’re both breathless when they finally pull away, Derek pressing his forehead against the younger boys in awe.

“Does this mean I get to quit calling you Coach?” Stiles asks then.

He’s smirking like the little shit he is, but Derek has never wanted him more. “Shut up, Stiles,” he says mildly.

“Make me,” Stiles teases back, and so Derek does.

 

**Author's Note:**

> @ tumblr [ here ](http://sarcasticlittleshitstiles.tumblr.com)for feedback x


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